


Last Stand

by Lady Day (day221b)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/day221b/pseuds/Lady%20Day
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colonel Sebastian Moran has his revenge.  Thankfully, Holmes and Watson are resilient.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Stand

**Author's Note:**

> A special thank you goes to irisbleufic for being her kind and generous self. Thank you for looking this over even though this is not your fandom. Thank you for your expertise, the polish, and your friendship.
> 
> Special note: I'm an American attempting British spellings. There may be mistakes.

There is an ominous rumble overhead. 

It reverberates through the maze where I find myself entombed.  The ground beneath my feet shakes.   An explosion?  Surely not this close to the city. At least I dearly _hope_ it’s not.  Puffs of dust and debris escape from the decrepit ceiling as I race past corridor after empty corridor.  My limbs are weary and stiff.  Indeed, my gait is slower than most on the best of days and my old war wounds are giving me pain.  Truth be told, I should be hobbling. Strength of will and the thrill of escape have all but given me wings, and I race toward freedom as swift as common sense and discretion will allow.

I round a junction, and my eyes catch the briefest sidelong glimpse of a dark shape lurking to my right.  Something akin to instinct takes over and my legs collapse beneath me. I slide to my knees in a brilliant flash of white-hot pain even as my head registers a breeze, a whoosh of displaced air. 

A man towers above me.  He is tall with a wide muscular build — a labourer in some capacity with an inflamed face.  His stubble suggests a ginger-haired man, although his hair is dark, greasy, and half hidden by an equally stained hat. Left-handed. Skinned knuckles. Blood dripping down the bridge of a misshapen, swollen nose.  Favouring his right side.  The brawling is recent. Blunt, calloused fingers blackened from a deplorable lack of hygiene curl around a dangerous-looking cudgel. 

His swing is poor, ill-timed. The brawler snarls down at me.  There is a peculiar twist of his body that suggests he had to pivot around at the last possible moment for his attack.  Surprise reflected in the man's otherwise cold glare is suggestive.  I’m not who he was expecting.

My grimace of pain shifts into a half-sob, half-laugh.  

Could it be that Providence has seen to bless me thrice?

For but a moment, I allow memory to overwhelm me.

* * *

_Holmes turns at the sound of my entrance, grinning the grin of the psychotic, and I’m warmed once again that the good Mister Sidney Paget took my advice to heart regarding his illustrations.  The man standing before me is not so lithe, tall, or as severe as his purported likeness._

_Bohemian to the core, his hair is dark and unruly. I take in his even darker eyes, eyes that seem to dance and flare with an unnatural light. The shirt he wears is too large for his frame. Mine, obviously. My clothes tend to hang upon him so sloppily I can never quite fathom why he likes to steal them to begin with, other than that he lives to annoy me._

_It is the work of a moment to take in the sight of his braces and familiar trousers. His own, of course.  The dog is snoring at Holmes's feet.  His bare feet._

_I spy the letter in his hands and hear an exclamation of delight, finding myself clutching on to him as he twirls us around the room. “Dance with me, Watson!” he exclaims, even as I hear poor put upon Gladstone's panicked yelp and retreat._

_“Please don’t kill my dog again, Holmes,” I warn him with some exasperation, used to his unusual flights of fancy._

_“Nonsense,” he scoffs back. “I have never once killed our dog. And Gladstone is our dog, is he not?”_

_I don’t pretend to debate him the point about Gladstone being our dog. Not anymore. If I were to be perfectly honest with myself, I don’t even recall when I stopped. I do debate him on the fact that it wasn’t two weeks since he fed Gladstone some ill-gotten concoction that had made him lay rigid and seemingly lifeless for over two hours before any signs he was still with us could be detected by me. Mrs. Hudson nearly had kittens, and I not far behind her. I had grown fond of the old boy._

_“Technicalities. He wasn’t dead. Merely unconscious, dreaming of rolling in meadows, no doubt, safe from the likes of crafty ponies, securely held within the loving arms of Morpheus. Soon I’ll not be only one in this household a celebrity. I intend on making him the subject of my latest monograph.”_  

_Holmes has been on fire these last few months. Between his superior intellect and my own humble attempts at documenting more of our earlier adventures together, there has been little time for him to indulge in his black moods.  Despite his petty grievances with my writing, there's no denying he loves every moment of his renewed fame after he came alive and crawled out from that awful chasm.  Even the soft glow from the hearth reflects the good-natured mischief in his too-dark eyes._

_Not drug-addled, I realise. Those eyes of his stop dancing when he's been indulging his vices.  The seven percent solution may brighten his gaze, but they deaden something vital housed within those great depths._

_"A new case already, I take it?" I deduce, endeavouring to imitate my companion’s mental processes.  It is accompanied with a tilt of my head, both to indulge him and scoff at his unexpected and even more uncharacteristic display of good humour.  I can scarcely recollect having seen him in such exuberant spirits. "I gather it must be promising," I say, pressing him in my own reserved manner, encouraging him for details._

_He blinks in surprise, and his expression softens.  He's grinning still, but no longer has the wild-eyed appearance of a madman in his element. This expression is as different as it is intimate.  It is also infectious._

_I grant myself this indulgence between us, one I have not permitted myself to enjoy with anyone since my dear sweet Mary’s passing._

_Distracted with the novelty, we allow ourselves to spin out of control. At the last possible moment, an arm snakes around to support my head as we tumble to the floor together._

__

* * *

_Later.  Much later. Our hansom. A horse's screams. Twisted walls.  A memory of crawling over shattered glass, my palms leaving a trail of bloody birds in my wake. Holmes's eyes that forever hold a spark of mischief blink open in a daze.  He holds my gaze and I see the question in his eyes._

_Am I hurt?_

_We still dance, but this time it’s a slow waltz made up of relieved grins and tired, quiet laughter before I break eye contact so I may examine him. The weather has changed and the light from the nearby streetlamp permits me to see our breath mingling with each exhalation, every word spoken between us. There is something different in all this_ — _something almost ethereal in its simplicity.  It’s all so intimate it has me transfixed, and I only return to myself when I feel the weight of wet fingertips brush against the side of my face. Moments pass before I realise it’s Holmes's thumb stroking a lazy, gentle caress over skin._

_I blink down at him in confusion. Realisation sets in at what has passed between us. My humble scribblings never broach the subject of my own cleverness, but only seek to illuminate Holmes’s brilliant intellect. Regardless, I’ve always considered myself intelligent, as sharp-witted as any reasonable man. That is until this moment. Perhaps I've not been so clever after all._

_And then, the unthinkable. Raised voices. His. Mine. Theirs. His blood-slick fingers outstretched and beckoning as I am pulled free of his grasp._

_Wicked laughter, a taunting sing-song voice followed by a gunshot._

_Then an all-too familiar, deafening silence that fills the night sky akin to that terrible roar of a gigantic waterfall that still haunts my sleepless nights._

_I stop fighting._

* * *

I ball my hands into fists.  

With a wild berserker call-to-arms, my adversary swings his weapon around again; this time to bring it down upon my skull and end it all.  

If he thinks he has me intimidated, then he is sorely mistaken.  I growl back at him, bringing my arm up for a roundhouse swing of my own.   

From my kneeling position, my fist doesn’t connect with my adversary, but the manacles I still have about one wrist does.  With a sickening wet thump it strikes him across the throat and my Goliath staggers backward, dropping the weapon to topple like a mighty oak.  The dust that has flaked down from the ceiling rises up to meet his fall and settles back down to blanket the wretch.

My temper momentarily abated, I blink at the fierceness of my attack. It could well have been a killing blow. I shouldn't care. Not a whit. Logic dictates that I pull myself to my feet and keep moving. To escape. To leave him as he would leave me — a broken dead thing on the floor.

I shouldn't care, but I do. I’m a doctor after all.

It takes only the work of a moment.  

The brawler will be sore, disoriented. It’s likely that he'll have an aversion to limping, taciturn ex-army doctors when he awakens, but he will awaken and he will live.

I wince, but stop myself from crying out.  The sudden, jarring impact flesh and bone have taken after colliding with the hardened floor might have saved my life, but it's played merry hell with my ability to stand unassisted.

My chest already hurts, my ribs ache, and my knees have seen better days. My mad rush to freedom might well be over if I cannot get my traitorous body to cooperate. 

Inspiration strikes, and I have the presence of mind to relieve the giant of his weapon.  It acts as a crutch and I rise to my feet.  It isn't my sword cane, but its dual nature is a welcome reminder of home and of all things familiar and endearing to me.  

There’s a tremor under my feet seconds before the building does more than tremble, and I'm thrown against the wall, coughing up dust.  

I push off and round another corner to find more of my captor's hired muscle charging toward me.  The Napoleon of Crime, he is _not_ , but the Professor lives on in his second-in-command, Colonel Sebastian Moran.  He's wilier and more revenge-driven-mad than even Holmes could have anticipated.  And since his escape from Scotland Yard, he’s lost little time in amassing a small army of confederates.  I'm uncertain how many of these men it will take to subdue me, but I can certainly count the number heading in my direction.  Too many.

I stiffen my resolve, readying my weapon, twisting it at its base.  If I am to be brought down amongst this throng, I will go down fighting.

They race past me.  

I turn and watch them run like rats from a sinking ship. My eyebrows raise in alarm. In these corridors, with their many rooms, it is easy to find oneself turned about.  I thought I was heading in the right direction, but I must be rushing headlong toward some unknown danger.

And then it registers.

Rats.

Sinking ship.

An explosion rocks the ground beneath my feet. 

"Holmes!"  I exclaim.  And I can't help the smile that lifts the corners of my mouth.

My elation is short-lived, however, as a sudden chill seizes my heart.

"Good God. What the deuce has that lunatic done now?" I groan.  A tingle of fear, and I am already running, my pain forgotten.

The adoring public believe they know this man.  A champion of justice, they would say.  They might describe him as brilliant, passionate, unrivalled, subtle, and driven.  They would be correct on all counts — for the man is all of those things.  I might also add an anomaly in the character of my friend. This being that when properly provoked he has proven on more than one occasion to possess all the subtlety of a thunderbolt.

And it would seem he’s been provoked.

I rush forward only to see a silhouette of a figure heading down the corridor at a brisk clip. Out of the shadows he stalks, chin down, eyes set, face grim. It could be but one man. One dear man. He raises what appears to be my trusty old service revolver.

“Holmes!”

At my shout, Holmes freezes, the weapon trained on me jerking away in an instant.  

I’ve long suspected him of having second sight. Indeed, there have been moments in our long association where I’ve believed he would have been burned alive had he lived in a less enlightened age. Such otherworldly talents appear to have forsaken him this night.

I limp closer, lessening the distance between us until I am standing in front of him.

He meets my stare with empty eyes, his gaze stricken, wild. Even his hair is more unkempt than usual. I find it alarming and reach over to smooth it down with my hand.

Holmes catches my wrist in a hard, unbreakable grip.

"My dear..." Holmes whispers, transfixed. His breath hitches, coming out too quickly, loud enough for me to hear it as his other hand, weapon forgotten, reaches over to rest against my breast. And if his fingers tremble slightly against my chest, I make no mention of it.

“Old boy,” I acknowledge with a nod.  And if my voice quavers, I make no mention of that either.

"It's always good to see you, Watson," Holmes says at last, his eyes regaining some of their natural illumination.

The warmth of his palm lingers on my wrist.  It is quite forgotten when I notice he has another firearm — a rifle — strapped to his back.

"My dear fellow, did you turn yourself into a one man brigade in order to rescue me?"

Holmes’s eyes dart away. He releases my wrist and drops his hand.

“Holmes?”

He refuses to meet my questioning gaze, but flashes a guilty smile to appease me. And then, the realisation hits. In my mind’s eye, I remember his quiet, almost flippant grief at losing Irene Adler and the renewed fervour with which he pursued Moriarty after he dared to go after me and mine. Him clutching Moriarty, knees locked against the railing. Sorrow and a thousand apologies reflected in his eyes as he looked at me. And then Holmes had closed his eyes, as though wishing my face to be the last thing he saw as he sent them both plummeting into the abyss. It had been too fast for me to do anything other than gape in both shock and horror, staring at the place he’d been.

It had been a fight to the death.

His appearance here has little to do with rescue. He knows I know. Still he chuckles to recover his equilibrium. "Well, you know," he finally manages.  "Since I happened by, I figured I would come and say hello."

It is a weak response, not up to his usual standard of banter. I press the matter. “Lestrade and company are waiting outside.” It isn’t a question.

I am met with more damning silence.

“Lestrade is waiting outside, isn’t he, Holmes? Tell me Lestrade or Clarkie — at the very least — is waiting outside. Holmes?”

“Not as such.”

“Gregson?” Holmes’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “Bradstreet? Hopkins?” I venture. “Billy? Tell me the Irregulars are within shouting distance.”

“There was a body,” he says at last, as though this somehow explains Holmes’s carelessness. “Remains, to be precise. Meant for me. Only for me. I had not anticipated — they were beyond even my astute abilities to —” Holmes breaks off, his voice rough. “Your build. Evidence of an injury both to a shoulder that might have once been grazed by a Jezail bullet and a wound to the leg. The injury was old. Not new.”

“Oh, Holmes...”

Moran had done this. He had found a way to affect Holmes on an emotional level.

I breathe deep, battling to keep the fury from my countenance. Terrified at how little Holmes has thought of his own safety in this. Moran is a dangerous man as experience has proven. The last time we faced him, I lost the greatest man I had ever known. He was gone. Simply and irrevocably gone until I remembered his wedding gift and stabbed it into his heart. “We’re discussing this, Holmes.”

“You cannot be serious,” he sputters. “Now? Really, Watson, your timing is appalling.”

“I don’t mean now. Later. We will be discussing this later.”

“I’d rather not, my boy. Tender feelings are your forte. Not mine.”

Undone, I huff out a laugh. My mind is reeling, but his comment has somehow grounded me. It’s made this situation we find ourselves in entirely real and not unappealing. “Who said anything about tender feelings,” I tease. When silence stretches, I look at him with both eyebrows raised. “Hmm? Who said anything about tender feelings, Holmes?”

“Time is of the essence, Watson.” He pulls away, intent on his task. “I’ll have that devil. I will have him!”

I grab his arm and pull him around to face me. “Then you’ll have him. Both of us, together, will see he is brought to justice. He’ll answer for what he’s done, but as soon as we’re relatively safe and back at Baker Street we will be discussing this.”

“I choose an alternative. I'm hiding behind Nanny.”

“Don’t look for help from that quarter. There is none. You’ve assured it. She’d prefer tossing you to the wolves. Or me. Or simply tossing you out on your ears. It’s only what you deserve.” I point my finger at his chest, the manacles still about my wrist clanking together. “And don’t think you can hide behind your seven-percent solution either.”

“I have no wish to discuss this.”

“I don’t care. It’s happening.”

“No,” says he, his dark eyes obstinate, but there is fear there. I can handle fear. I’ve dealt with fear before.

“Holmes…”

Holmes’s face twists into a grimace. “Must we?”

“It’s happening, Holmes!”

At my shout, Holmes steps back.

I’ve won. I know I’ve won so I can breathe slightly easier. I’ll have my way in this, so I take in his appearance once more. My smile is grim. “You look ridiculous,” I complain, because it is expected.

His chin lifts and he sniffs, still avoiding eye contact.  "If I was to play the role of avenging angel, I thought it essential I look the part."

I lift my eyebrows, incredulous.

“Within reason,” he amends, finally daring to look at me.

I narrow my eyes.  “Have you hit anything?” And if there is shrewdness in my tone, I make no apologies.

Affronted, Holmes puffs out his chest. “A great many things and with a good deal of enthusiasm.”

“This, of course, explains the blind terror and the fleeing I just witnessed.” I am unable to keep the humour from my voice, struck at the ease with which he breaks the tension between us.  

Holmes shrugs, exhaling.  “Not to mention the detonations. Of course if you’re inquiring on whether I’ve succeeded in my endeavours at hitting my targets —” he hands over my revolver and the rifle, and another revolver he’s pulled from somewhere I’d rather not dwell upon too closely. It is followed up by a dainty-looking pistol he’d kept hidden in his sock. I juggle my burden as the spare bullets are thrust at me.

“Good God—”

“— I find that I’m lost without my Boswell.”

Our gazes meet and hold.  He leans forward and brushes his lips to mine.

Perhaps we’ll not need that discussion after all. He’s said all he needs to.

“Right, then,” I say, after pulling back. Clearing my throat, I attempt to suppress the smile threatening to break loose. I strap the rifle across my shoulders. Quickly, I grapple with the remaining weapons, finding appropriate places for them. Finally, I grip my service revolver and check the chambers. “Are you ready to end this?”

“Once and for all.” He graces me with an unguarded expression of affection. “Once more unto the breach, my dear friend?”

I grin, my expression mirroring his as we stride forward to meet our fate side by side.


End file.
